Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
The usual suspects are there. Gus, a weathered reporter who has covered us for years, clears his throat and asks the first question. “Asher, you made the assist to Falcon in the third that tied the game. What was going through your mind on that play? It looked like you were lining up for a shot.”
I nod, giving a measured answer. “We were down by one with five minutes left, so I knew I needed a more aggressive approach. But when I saw Falcon open, I went for it. The pass lined up just right, and he nailed it. I’m lucky it paid off, but this team never quits.”
Gus scribbles a note, seemingly satisfied with my response.
Then Claudia, a podcaster, raises her hand, wasting no time. “So you’re married now. When did things start with your wife? The night she won you at the auction? That was pretty fast.”
Everly shoots her a friendly but pointed look, her tone polite but firm. “If we could keep the questions hockey-related, that’d be great.”
It’s not surprising that a reporter has asked a skeptical question. And I appreciate Everly’s save, but if I dodge the question, that’ll only fuel the speculation.
I think about this week. The brunch with the owners on Tuesday, and the dinner with the Total Teamwork board on Friday, where Soraya will be relieved I have a date. I remember Beckett’s warning to protect Maeve as I think about all the pieces of our story that have slipped out of our control—photos of the kiss after the auction, the pic of us at the concert, shots of us around the roulette table.
Everyone else is telling our story. Random strangers are putting together the pieces of our romance like we’re a jigsaw puzzle.
But I’m not moving the pieces, and that doesn’t sit well with me. I hate it when things spin out of control. It makes me feel jittery and frustrated. Like a teenager again, helpless to do anything when my dad was sick. So, I don’t take the out that Everly is offering. Instead, I do what I promised Beckett I would—protect Maeve.
“I can only speak for myself,” I say to Claudia, with ease and confidence even, “but this has been going on for a long time.”
Everly gives a professional grin to the media scrum. “Next question.”
Another reporter asks one that’s hockey-related, and I answer it, but my mind is already racing. I don’t regret what I said, but we need to get our story straight if I’m going to keep my promise.
I’ll text her as soon as I return to the locker room. I’m not going to fuck up this chance.
For her, of course.
I don’t want to mess it up for her.
Especially since I was only speaking the truth to the press.
23
SUCH A LOVELY FLIRT
Maeve
From unexpected drama while live painting at parties to disappearing into the crowd while serving canapés. All in twenty-four hours. On Sunday evening, I swing past a group of art collectors at the Julien Aldridge Gallery in the Marina District, offering a final tray of champagne before the opening night ends. One woman—a blonde with a sleek bob haircut, dressed in a pantsuit with a plunging neckline—takes a flute without glancing at me.
“Thanks, love,” she says, her voice dripping with casual indifference. She turns back to her group, her manicured hand gesturing as they discuss the thoughtful colors of the light installation on one wall. Neon blinks in and out, spelling provocative questions across the room in bold, electric letters.
What even is success?
Don’t you have enough?
But will you ever be happy?
The words flash like a challenge. Honestly, they’re kind of rude. Like, I don’t need a light installation seeing into my soul. But then again, is it too early to hope? Too soon to think success might finally come my way once my name is out there on the Sea Dogs mural? It’s a heady thought and, frankly, one I could get lost in if I’m not careful.
So I make my final lap with the champagne before slipping into the back—the prep area, where the real work happens. Stainless steel counters hold trays of food, half-filled platters, and the last of the champagne flutes as the catering staff tidies up for the night.
“It’s almost a wrap,” Vivian says with a satisfied smile, glancing up from her tablet, her brown eyes pleased behind her red plaid glasses. It’s still jarring to look at her, even ten years after my mother died. Light brown hair, untamable waves, brown eyes—they looked so much alike they were often mistaken for twins, despite my mom being two years younger.
“You did such a wonderful job tonight, Maeve. I was impressed with how you handled the other servers.”
She’d assigned me to be the so-called lead server for the evening, and I appreciate the promotion. I want to be good at this job because it pays the bills. And I know it’d matter to my mother—to show up for family.